


Soaked

by Stargazing121



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Sex, Smut, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-25 00:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17714294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stargazing121/pseuds/Stargazing121
Summary: She tripped. She’d been tripping all week and always when he was around to catch her.It hit him like a bludger to the head.“Granger," Draco said, "have you been hitting on me? Literally.”





	Soaked

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Strictly Dramione Valentine's Day Smut Fest. 
> 
> Prompt: No. 31: Stumble when you walk into a room he’s in. 
> 
> Beta'd by the tireless and wonderful jamethiel.

Draco decided that Granger was up to something.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye.  

She certainly looked shifty and far too attractive.

He took another nonchalant sip of champagne.

Surely, he thought, her backless red dress was entirely inappropriate for his charity Valentine’s Day gala. She normally swanned about the Ministry in a variety of hideous grey suits, which were designed to incite lust in no man. Save himself, of course. But that was only because he had a thing for the kinky librarian look.

Right now, her hair should not be cascading down her back like a waterfall, and her feet should not be encased in four inch heels with red soles. On any other women, he would have dubbed them as ‘fuck me’ heels. On Granger, he knew the choice of seductive footwear was entirely accidental.

Draco took personal offence at her shoes. She was dangerous enough when she was wearing flats; she was probably going to be lethal in high heels.

Keeping his eyes on Granger, Draco nodded at something the undersecretary for the Minister for Magic had said.

Before the _problem_ , Draco hadn’t often made an appearance at the Ministry. Why would he – he ran a racing broom company and didn’t need to subject himself to the windowless, bureaucratic, stifling atmosphere of the Ministry. However, then there had been the _problem_ : the _problem_ which had Hermione Granger’s name written all over it. In red ink. Underlined three times.

She really was the most annoyingly idealistic witch alive. The fastest racing broom on the planet would already be in production if it wasn’t for her environmental spiel on the sanctity of the forests and wildlife. As it was, the project was now running three months behind, and all because the Golden Girl had covered him in enough red tape to corner off three murder scenes.

She’d said it was his duty to protect the magical _flora_ and _fauna_ for future generations. She’d said he should plant two trees in replacement for every single tree he cut down in the name of commercialism. She’d said that Malfoy brooms were prematurely designed, immovable, and unsatisfying to ride.

He’d told her to bugger off.

It hadn’t worked.

Instead, she’d used her position as the head of the newly renamed Department for Cooperation with Magical Beings and their Habitats to enforce weekly meetings with him where she would proceed to lecture him on the environmental impact and trading standards of his company.

He said he needed more information. She agreed. The weekly meetings turned into daily ones.

At first, he had rather begrudgingly introduced reforestation and gone through the laborious process of replanting every tree he’d cut down.

Then, she’d managed to persuade him that afforestation was a good idea. With hindsight, he was sure her blouses which she wore for these meetings were a form of sexual entrapment. They were buttoned to the neck and therefore designed to set his imagination on fire.

Before he knew it, he had agreed to start a charity for the conservation of magical forests and the creatures that inhabited them, which was snappily acronymed to P.U.F.F (Protection for Uncommon _Flora_ and _Fauna_ ).  

Now here he was, hosting a gala which Granger had insisted on as a fundraiser for P.U.F.F, which she’d roped him into organising, paying for, and hosting at the Manor.

All he could do was sneakily watch her from across the ballroom as she was monopolised by Percy Weasley, of all people.

Her knuckles looked white from where she gripped her champagne flute, and Draco thought she might be about to cudgel Percy to death with it. Draco could sympathise with her reaction to a Weasley's presence. He’d often had to suppress violent urges when Percy started wittering on about the substandard thickness of parchment paper.

Suddenly Granger turned her head towards Draco and caught his stare. He didn’t shift his gaze; it would have been a dead give away that he’d been looking at her. Instead, he bowed his head at her. A formal and elegant gesture. He gave no indication of the lust burning in his loins.

During their negotiations, Granger was fierce and, on more than one occasion, he’d feared for the safety of parts of his anatomy from a well placed kick of hers under the table. Right now, on her feet, he feared that Granger was a genuine concern to life and limb – specifically his. Not an unwarranted conclusion given her strange behavior in the last week.

At the beginning of the week, Granger had been late to their daily meeting, and he’d been sitting and brooding in her office, and distracting himself by imagining all the sarcastic comments he was going to make at her when she eventually arrived.

He’d heard her office door open, and, intending to start on her the moment she stepped over the threshold, he’d stood up and turned around.

“Granger, you’re late. You’d better –”

The rebuke had died in his throat because his arms were abruptly full of Granger.

He’d dumbly stared at the top of her head

“Oh, Malfoy,” she’d said into his chest. “Sorry about this.”

He’d tried to ignore the feel of her luscious curves in his hand, and the way her breast pressed against his ribs.

“Don’t mention it.” His voice had been rather strained.

“I just stumbled walking into the room.” She’d lifted herself off him and blinked up into his face with the most innocent expression that he normally would have suspected a trick. But this was Hermione Granger – she didn’t employ arts and wiles on any man, let alone one like him.

The words had got stuck in his throat, but he managed, “I understand. I often have this effect on women.”

Her laugh had sounded like clink of ice in a glass of something strong and intoxicating.

“You can...let go of me now?” _Blink. Blink._

Draco had hastily back away from her, his hands still tingling from the heat of her body.

He’d spent the next two days avoiding eye contact with her – which had been bloody difficult given that he saw her every day.

He’d just readjusted his brain to the realisation that beneath Granger’s frumpy clothing was what felt like an amazing body when disaster struck.

He’d been walking towards her office, when Granger rushed blindly out of a door and knocked into him. He’d immediately caught her under the arms and pulled her back into his chest, supporting them both.

Then he’d frozen in the horrible knowledge that the soft rounded thing pressing into his crotch was Hermione Granger's arse, and it felt incredible.

“Gosh, thank you Malfoy.” She’d sounded a little breathless.

She’d shuffled back and tried to regain her footing, but all she achieved was to rub her pert backside against his groin.

He’d hissed.

“Are you alright?” she asked. Her voice was light, angelic, and not at all full of feminine mystique.

He’d given a very awkward cough. “We need to put a warning on you. Approach with caution.” He hoisted her up and moved her far, far away from his person.

“I don’t know what’s come over me.” She’d given a little shrug which caused her breasts to visibly jiggle under her suit jacket.

“I was on my way to your office.” It was an unnecessary explanation, but his mind had gone strangely blank.

She’d looked at her watch. “Is it that time already? I’d completely forgotten! Well, shall we go then?”

He’d had to walk behind her as she practically skipped along the corridor towards her office. He remembered frowning when realising that her shoes were completely flat with no trace of a heel or any other reason to explain why she kept losing her footing around him.

Yesterday, she’d done it again, and this time he’d almost done something stupid. Such as kiss her. He’d been on his way out of the Ministry after having spent three hours finalising plans for this Valentine’s day ball – sorry – gala with Granger.

He’d said his goodbyes to her and made a hasty departure. He was just getting into the empty lift when Granger ran into the lift, and, in what was becoming her trademark, stumbled into him.

He’d caught her by the hips and staggered backwards.  

“Bugger me,” he’d said as his back hit the back of the lift.

She was slightly panting, and her breath was hot on his neck.

“Oops,” she sighed. “Silly me.”

He’d blinked. Had he really just heard _the_ Hermione Granger, terror of the English Channel, scourge of his life, and general pain in the arse, utter the words ‘silly me’? Maybe he’d knocked his head when he’d hit the back of the lift?

She’d used his body to push herself up. Her face had been delightfully flushed and a few spiral curls had escaped from her chignon.

She’d smiled at him, eyes sparkling. “Really, Malfoy, I must stop bumping into you like this.”

“Yes,” he’d injected a vein of sarcasm into his tone, “I don’t know what you’d do if I wasn’t constantly stopping you from falling on your arse.”

She’d just laughed.

 

Granger was smiling at him. She’d almost turned her back on Weasley – and she was just standing there giving him an almost giddy smile. Suddenly, to Draco, the past few months of meetings, compromises, and work seemed worth it. Just to see that smile on her face.

“Excuse me,” Draco said as he walked away from the undersecretary, who had been in the middle of explaining a piece of utterly fascinating foreign policy.

“Wonderful party,” Granger said as he approached her.

“I am very proud of myself.” Draco plastered a smirk on his face. “Enjoying yourself, Granger?”

She waved her free hand, almost knocking Weasley’s glasses off his face, as she gestured to the grotesque amount of Valentine’s Day decorations.

“If it’s possible to die of overexposure to the colour pink,” she said, “then there are going to be a few casualties tonight.”

The ballroom was covered from floor to ceiling in hearts of different shades of pink. Heart balloons. Heart confetti. Streamers cut with repeating hearts. Even the tables and chairs were pink and shaped like hearts. It was quite a sickening sight; but Granger had specified a muggle Valentines theme.

Draco bit his lip and looked up at her from between his lashes. “I took your brief  _very_  seriously.”

“Mr Malfoy,” Percy pompously said, “the Ministry wishes to thank you for all your cooperation and –”

Draco cut Percy off. “The Minister should be thanking Miss Granger.” Draco fixed Percy with a withering glare. “If I didn’t have full confidence in her abilities then I would’ve been significantly more difficult to work with. Now, as a joy as it is to see you, Percy, would you mind giving me and Miss Granger a moment.”

Percy looked reluctant to leave.

Draco rolled his eyes at Hermione, but leaned in to whisper to Percy, “Between you and me, I need to shout at her for problem with the catering.”

Behind his glasses, Percy looked like a goldfish. “Oh – oh – yes, of course.”

“What did you say to him?” She watched Percy’s retreat with a bemused expression on her face.

Draco shrugged. “Told him I needed to yell at you.”

“And do you need to yell at me?”

He briefly considered the option of giving her a rollicking about her dangerously high shoes. “No,” he decided. “Not at the moment.”

She raised a too knowing eyebrow, but didn’t pass comment.

She looked away, and seemed to be preoccupied in watching the people around them.

“I particularly appreciate the new uniforms your house elves have,” she said, breaking the silence.

Draco grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re extremely happy with them. I have a horrible feeling they’re never going to want to take them off. I’m going to be surrounded by elves wearing little togas and holding tiny bows and arrows till the day I die.”

“If you get bored of the cupid look then you could always give them Santa’s elf costumes for Christmas?”

He gave a dramatic shudder. “Please don’t say things like that. It puts the most awful images into my head.” He took a sip of champagne. “This has to be a record for you, Granger. You’ve gone over an hour without falling over.”

“Oh dear,” she said, and her mouth curved into an uncharastically wicked smile. She hefted her full champagne glass. “I must remedy this at once.”

Before Draco could react, Hermione stumbled forward and jettisoned the contents of her champagne glass over him.

“Fuck!” The cold liquid hit his face, and instantly soaked him to the skin.

She gave a few innocent blinks. “Oh dear.”

“Fuck. Fuck.” Draco looked up at her and then back down at his sopping wet clothes. “You threw your champagne over me.”

“What an absurd notion,” she said. “I simply slipped. Honestly, I should be yelling at you for over polishing your ballroom floor.”

“You did it on purpose!”

“Really.” She shook her head as if the accusation was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. She grabbed his wrist. “Come with me. We must get you out of those wet things before you catch a cold.”

She propelled him through the ballroom, through the horde of stunned guests, and into the hallway with an efficiency that only the brightest witch of her age could have managed.

“Where’s your bedroom?” she said, in a tone so like Professor McGonagall's that he had to double check it wasn’t his old teacher yanking him up the staircase.

“At home.” He felt wet, stupid and confused.

Why – by Merlin’s saggy balls – had Hermione Granger thrown champagne over him? He hadn't been more of an insufferable arse than normal– had he? He’d said much worse to her, and only received an eye roll and a sharp retort from her in retaliation.

He followed her up the stairs. It was either that, or be dragged.

“I meant where was your bedroom before you grew up – or, in your case just got older – and moved out of your parents' Manor?” Her sarcasm was palpable.

“Sixth room on the right.”

He blinked champagne out of his eyes, and decided that even the most expensive Moet and Chandon still stung like the cheapest vodka.

She opened the door and didn’t stumble as she walked into his childhood bedroom.

“Honestly, Draco, posters of witches in snakeskin skirts riding brooms?” She turned and raised her eyebrow at him. “Could you be more Slytherin?”

“Would you care,” he raked a hand through his wet hair, “to explain why I am soaking wet?”

Hermione’s hands tugged at the knot of his tie. “I tripped, nothing more.” She started working on his shirt buttons.

“Hippogriff bull. That trip was not accidental.”

“You cannot be suggesting that I,” she pressed a hand to her heart, “tripped on purpose?” She plucked his half full champagne glass out of his hand and set it on the bedside table.

He shivered when her hand brushed his bare chest. “You did.”

“Not at all.”

“But you did, didn’t you?”

“Well,” she slid his jacket off his shoulders, “maybe a bit.” His shirt joined his jacket on the floor.

_She tripped_. She’d been tripping all week and always when he was around to catch her.

It hit him like a bludger to the head. “Granger, have you been hitting on me? Literally.”

“The penny drops.”

“Huh?”

“Well, you weren't getting my subtle hints.” She dropped to her knees and unlaced his shoes. “I had to take more drastic action.”

Only then did it occur to Draco that he was being undressed. He looked down. _Yep_ . Those were Hermione Granger’s small hands undoing his belt. _Holy Christ_. Her fingers were on the zip of his trousers.

He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, or heavens, or whatever unearthly body was up there.

He heard the unmistakable sound of his zip being undone.

“Drastic action?” he said, a tad breathlessly. Throwing a drink over him at his own party would certainly constitute as drastic.

“Draco, would you be so kind as to lift your feet?”

He didn’t dare look down. “Sure.”

She pulled off his shoes and trousers.

His eyes flitted around his old bedroom. His bed – large, four poster, and neatly made. The walls – covered in teenage wizard posters and painted dark green. The bedside table – a snitch shaped clock, a lamp, and his almost untouched glass of champagne.

_Drastic action_.

He glanced down.

Hermione was on her knees before him, and her hands were on the waistband of his boxers. His erection could be clearly be made out through the silken material.

Her eyes were impossibly big and brown as she looked up at him. The hem of her dress flowed around her like water.  

_Drastic action_.

He picked up his glass and threw the champagne over her dress.

“Malfoy!”

He smiled. He couldn’t help it. “It’s not nice, is it?”

“Oh my.” She looked down and blinked. “Gods. I’m soaked.”

“Up you get, Granger.” He bent down and pulled her to her feet. “We need to get you out of those wet things.”

“It’s cold!” She scowled up at him, but she still managed to look the most beautiful and terrifying thing he’d ever seen.

“I am more than aware of how cold it feels.” He spun her around. He flicked the buttons of her dress open. “You’re not wearing a bra,” he whispered, as he pushed the clinging material off her body. It pooled at her feet. It was ruined anyway. If he followed her same policy as trees then he’d have to buy her two in replacement.

Draco bit back a curse. Her knickers had a tiny red bow at the back.

“When did you start sending me hints?” He brushed the back of his hand along her spine.

She shivered. “About a month ago.”

“I’m a fool.”

She giggled and turned to face him. “You’re only just realising now?”

He cupped her face and caressed her wet cheek. “Please allow me to make amends for my woefully foolish behavior.”

He pressed his mouth to hers and tasted the tang of champagne. He felt her hand on his neck before they slid into his hair. She pressed him closer, and let her tongue dance with his.

He kept kissing her as he moved her backwards and closer to the bed. She made a little noise as he pushed her down. He rested a knee on the bed and bend over her. His fingertips drew obscure patterns up and down her body.

Draco was no longer a teenage boy; he waited until he’d kissed her senseless before reaching up and cupping her breasts. He rolled his thumbs over her nipples, and he felt the vibration of her moan in her chest.

She sighed as he broke the kiss.

“Bloody hell,” he said and pressed open mouthed kisses down her neck. “We could have been doing this instead of talking about the damn trees for the past few months.”

“The trees are very important.”

“Absolutely.” He blew hot air over her nipple and watched as it peaked into a bud. “And if I wasn’t already growing you a forest then I would inundating you with promises to.”

He sucked her nipple into his mouth, and he trailed a hand down her body.

He pulled back and played with the edge of her knickers. “Is there instead,” he said, “an endangered species of white oak tree or a collection of silver birch that could do with my intention?”

Hermione untangled her hands from his hair and struggled up on her elbows. “Well there is a forest in North Wales which –” Draco slid a finger under the lace, “– Oh.”

_Soaking._

“I didn’t realise I’d thrown champagne over your knickers.” He moved his mouth to her other breast and lathered it with attention.

Draco had a plan: get Hermione Granger off and watch her come. It was simple and to the point; usually his schemes were a lot more complicated. Must be all the blood rapidly rushing away from his brain. It made it very difficult to have coherent thoughts.

He sat up and pulled her knickers down her hips, flinging them to the farthest corner of the room, where she would hopefully never find them again. He cupped her sex, and he had to stifle a groan at how hot she was. Moving his thumb upwards he found her clit and started to rub smooth circles, pressing lightly into the sensitive bud. He slid a finger into her cunt, and then another, and started to slowly move in and out of her.

Hermione’s eyelashes fluttered as she looked at him, and she let out a little sigh. He let his eyes lock with hers and was almost overwhelmed by the warmth of her expression.

He could have dived into the caramel depths of her irises, and been swallowed by blackness of her pupils, and yet it still would not have been enough.

He wanted to say something – to tell her how wonderful she was, and how he wanted to explore every inch of her mind and body – but the words caught in his throat. He kissed her instead.

He tried to pour everything into that kiss; all his lust and months of longing.

She was groaning into his mouth, and he couldn’t suppress a smile as he felt her walls tighten. He broke the kiss and moved back.

Her head was thrown back, and her hair was splayed around her head like a chestnut halo on his patterned bedspread. She looked flushed and distractingly sexy.

Her eyes flicked open and narrowed. “Don’t stop,” she said between pants.

He sped up his thrusts, and grinned as he felt her tighten and quiver and finally spasm around his fingers. His grin turned practically predatory as he watched the colour rise to her cheeks, and her mouth open in a silent scream as she came.

She reached for him; it was a blind and groping gesture, but she succeeded in pulling him on top of her. Her legs wrapped around his waist and anchored him to her. He propped his arms on either side of her head, his weight denting the bed around her, and adjusted his hips.

He sunk into her. As he did, he knew he said something inappropriate and vulgar, but _merlinfuckingchristinamanger_ she felt too good.  

He couldn’t move. The pleasure was so extreme he was concerned he may have momentarily died. He occasionally read those types of stories in the Prophet; stories about people whose heartbeat stopped for a few minutes before being brought back with a jolt. He wondered if that was what was happening to him. His heart was pounding and sounding as loud as a muggle drill in his ears.

Hermione nudged his back with her foot. He blinked down at her, and from underneath her hot gaze he could discern a note of indignation at his stillness.

“Patience,” he said and started to move.

He’d meant to be slow. He finally was sleeping with Granger, and he’d meant to be slow, and savour the moment, and all those other things men were meant to do when they had sex with the woman they loved. But – by Merlin – she was sighing and moaning underneath him, and every thrust of his cock seemed to arouse her even more.

Her hands were clutching at his hips, and she dug her nails into his flesh as he sped up. Her eyes were closed, and she arched her back and tilted her body to receive more of him. He felt her around him. He felt her climax rock through her body. He felt the tightening of her channel, the cry from her mouth, and the tremble of her thighs.

He caught her open mouth and kissed her. He slanted his lips over hers and swallowed her moans before darting his tongue into her mouth. She gave another little gasp, but ran her tongue along his.

His thrusts were sharp and ragged now; he was chasing his own pleasure and burying his cock deep inside her with every stroke.

He kept kissing her as he grabbed the back of her thigh, pulled her leg up, and settled her calf on the top of his forearm. Pushing himself deeper; sliding in and out of her at a rapid pace.

He felt the pressure build in him, and his body start to tighten like a coiled spring.  

She took his bottom lip between her teeth and sharply bit it.

His hips jolted forward.

She did it again, and pulled his bottom lip into her mouth and slowly sucked the sore spot.

Something inside of him broke, and with a low groan, he came. Black dots peppered his vision as he jerked himself into her over and over again, riding out the pleasure.

He collapsed onto her, breathless and shaking, and then he remembered himself and rolled his weight off her.

Hermione curled into his side. “How was that for you?” she said, and he didn’t need to see her to hear the smile in her voice.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her closer. “Magical.” It was cliched, but he didn't care. He caressed her skin with the side of his thumb.

“I think I might need to try my wand work some more.” She smoothed her hand over his skin before settling it over his heart.

“I’d be happy to assist with that in any way I can.” He looked down at the top of Hermione’s head. He was happy to see that while her hair still cascaded down her back, it was a more raggedy waterfall. The thought reminded him of how he’d found himself here in the first place. With her ‘stumbling’ onto him, yet again. “Where did you get this idea from?”

“Which idea?”

“The one of tripping into me?”

“An article in an ancient Witch Weekly on how to find a husband.” She laid her head over his pectoral.

Draco eyes widened and he blinked up at the ceiling. “A what?”

“A husband,” she repeated, employing a voice which might be used on the hard of thinking, such as himself.

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve been falling into every wizard in London with the hope of getting married?” He tried to sound annoyed, but after all the groaning he'd done, it came out as more of a gravelly growl.

“Of course not.” She propped her chin on his chest and glared up at him. “I’d already found the one I wanted. I just needed a little help landing him.” Annoyance flitted over her features. “It’s you, by the way, as you seem to be so resistant to subtlety.”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling. “How is it that my fiancée can have had two superb orgasms and still be able to frown?”

Laughter crept into her eyes. “I don’t know; why don’t you give me a third and see if that helps?”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “I’ll have to see what I can do,” he said and kissed her.

 

_fin_

 


End file.
